


A Mile in His Trousers

by Aris_Silverfin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Swap, Disordered Eating, Established Relationship, Feeding, Gen, John's attentive, M/M, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 20:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1756095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris_Silverfin/pseuds/Aris_Silverfin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John wake up in each others' bodies one morning thanks to an experiment gone awry. John doesn't ignore his body's hunger signals as absolutely as Sherlock does and so a bit of weight is added to the detective's frame. Sherlock then decides to indulge in a bit of revenge. WARNINGS: disordered eating, weight gain, fat kink, fat appreciation, belly stuffing within</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Body's Not Quite Right

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on a Fatlock Scenario I submitted to Fatlock on tumblr. Then it wouldn't leave my brain alone, and viola! Full-fledged fic! Hope you enjoy! It turned out a tad plottier than I had expected, but kink galore to come in later chapters! Promise!

The morning light peeked in through the window, between the curtains which seemed to have been neglected last night. This allowed the sunlight to prod the eyelids of one John Watson who huffed in his sleep and blinked himself awake. He grumbled and rolled onto his side to face away from the unwelcomed call to wakefulness. He sleepily registered the form of his consulting detective turned mad flatmate, turned lover before closing his eyes again. What was odd was that Sherlock had taken the right side of the bed when he always made such a fuss about wanting the left. Well, maybe they had both been rather tired last night. John frowned. He actually couldn't remember going to bed last night at all. He hadn't even been drinking. John felt something tickling his forehead annoyingly and reached a hand up to brush it away. Maybe a spider or s-

No. God his hair really was getting long... but it didn't curl like that. And his hand felt entirely too big to be his own. John opened his eyes and gave a small start of surprise and a well chosen swear as he took in the limb before him. It wasn't unfamiliar. Just utterly alien in it's current location before his eyes, long and pale with slim violinist's fingers. John's eyes trailed down to where it connected to a slim boney wrist and forearm that definitely did not belong to him.

"Sherlock?" asked John and his voice reverberated in his chest in a way it definitely wasn't supposed to.

The form next to him grunted and rolled over and John let out his second well chosen expletive of the morning, followed by his third, fourth and fifth in quick succession. Because it wasn't Sherlock laying next to him. It was John, himself.

John took in his own face with some sort of quasi fascination. It was like a three dimensional mirror or some odd way of seeing himself on tape. Still, that couldn't be him. He was him and whoever that was was definitely not him.

Actual John felt his heart begin to pound. Was this some sort of trick by Moriarty? Another of his games? At any rate. That wasn't Sherlock lying at his side. John pounced, and pinned the stranger who looked like him to the mattress by the throat. His limbs still felt abnormally long and slighter than what he knew his own felt like, but they were wiry and strong. The man who looked like him gave an indignant yelp and struggled for a moment before staring wide-eyed up at his face, blue eyes flicking around every feature with surprising speed.

"All right," growled John, and it definitely was a growl, deep and resonant in his own head, "Look I don't know who the hell you are, or why you look like me, but where's Sherlock?"

Not-John raised a shaking hand to the one John had around his throat, then snarled in John's own voice, "You're strangling him. But the better question I think is who the hell are you? Some genetic experiment? A clone or just a very convincing doppelganger?"

John blinked. It was odd hearing that rapid fire speech come from his own lips, see his own eyes dance the way Sherlock's did when he was taking every particle of something in.

"No..." said Not-John after a while, looking up at John, narrowing his eyes, "John Watson, I presume? We seem to have woken on the wrong side of the bed."

John watched his own mouth try to quirk into the half smirk that always appeared on Sherlock's lips when he was being clever.

"Yeah," said John, loosening his grip on his look-alike's throat and lifting his hands to look at them, "Hang on, so if you're in my body, then-"

"Yes, yes, you're in mine," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes, "Do keep up."

"But- How? Sherlock, how in the hell did-"

"African dream root, or Silene undulata if you prefer," said Sherlock, wriggling John's body up against the pillows and steepling his fingers beneath his chin, "I was conducting an experiment with it. You were a participant, I hope you don't mind, I needed more data."

"Sherlock, did you fucking drug me? Again?" snapped John.

Sherlock's, or well John's, eyes flicked back to him. "Yes. Really you should be more particular with your tea. I suppose this is a good time to check if your palate really is completely shot or it's just your average- er. Sorry," said Sherlock, and thanks to John's face he actually looked it for once. He paused then added, "I should have asked you. That was... that was a bit not good, wasn't it?"

John huffed a sigh and it sounded more exasperated when coming from Sherlock's lungs. "Yeah. You kinda should have," he said, dully, looking down at his mad scientist of a boyfriend. Luckily his curiosity was getting the better of his anger for once.

"So, er, what does that African dream root actually do?" he asked.

"It's a plant that has a rather interesting psychoactive element in it that hasn't been identified by modern science yet," explained Sherlock, the details rattling off John's tongue with all the confidence they normally did. God, his own voice really sounded like a posh twat when he enunciated like that. "It has been used in African spiritual ceremonies for ages. Now as you know, I don't usually go in for that sort of thing, but the compound intrigued me. It is said that it allows the consumer to dreamwalk when sleeping and manipulate another person's dreams. Out of curiosity. Did you have any... er, dreams an interesting nature?"

John felt Sherlock's cheeks rush with heat as he remembered. "Er, yeah. They were. They were really quite... good," he said. He was pretty sure at one point there had been two Sherlock's being rather imaginative.

Sherlock chuckled, John's laugh coming out instead. "Well, glad to see that was a success at least. I had been worried. You are supposed to take it on an empty stomach and I didn't manage to get yours to you until after you'd had dinner," he said, "My guess is that we both wound up dream walking and walked into the wrong head once we settled in for the night."

"Ah, I see," said John. Though he really didn't. Sherlock suddenly clapped his hands together and leaped out of bed.

"All we need to then is to induce the dream state again and get back to the proper bodies," he said excitedly, rushing over to his wardrobe to pull out his usual suit and trying to dress John's body in it.

"Er, Sherlock," said John pointedly, nodding to his own instead and grinning.

"Oh, yes right." John watched himself give up on the too long and too snug clothing and go burrowing through his jumpers instead.

"Oi! I just folded those!"

"No time, John. I'll get this mess sorted again. I need to meet up with my contact before she leaves town again or we'll be stuck like this for God knows how long," replied Sherlock, straightening and checking himself in the mirror. John watched a frown furrow his brows when he wasn't tall enough to see all of himself and he chuckled.

"Glad you're enjoying yourself," said Sherlock flatly, swinging around in response to John's laugh. John wrinkled his nose up at him and pulled a face. The detective in the doctor rolled his eyes and huffed, "Kindly stop doing that to my face, it's unbecoming. I'll be back in a few hours. Bye." With a kiss, he was gone, dashing down the stairs.

John sighed and decided he may as well get out of bed too. He undressed and redressed in Sherlock's clothing. God, how was that man even comfortable in these tight shirts all day? He ran a hand down the pale slim stomach and over the hipbones that were protruding beneath that. "Don't you ever eat?" wondered John aloud. The stomach beneath his hand surprised him with a growl. He couldn't help but feel a small rush of triumph. "Hah! You do get hungry, you prat," murmured to himself. Well, best to take care of this body while he was in it.

John wandered to the kitchen, walking a bit slowly since he felt like he was on stilts. He made tea and popped some bread in the toaster. Then decided he could do with some eggs and sausage as well. The smell of food was just making him hungrier. He wondered when the last time this body had had a proper meal. Well, at least Friday night when John had shoved a bowl of pasta at him.

Breakfast made, John settled down to eat. Sherlock's stomach seemed to gurgle in thanks as it filled with nutrients. John gave it a pat.

He was just finishing the last of the daily paper when he heard the door open and slam below, then feet on the stairs.

"John?," huffed Sherlock, pulling a scarf from John's neck as he rushed into the kitchen, "I managed to meet her, I got the last of the- what in God's name are you doing?" He stared at the nearly cleared plate and utensils sitting in front of Sherlock's body as if he had never seen breakfast before.

John raised one of Sherlock's eyebrows and replied,"You tell me. You're supposed to be the detective."

Sherlock narrowed John's eyes and glowered at him. "I'll ask you to look after my transport properly while you're in the thing. It doesn't require the level of fuel you flood your system with."

"Oi," said John, looking up indignantly.

But Sherlock was still on a tirade and bulldozed over him. "Even now, this body is so dismally sluggish. Slow. Soft! No wonder-"

"Sherlock. Shut it." warned John.

Sherlock did. He blinked down at his own eyes that burned at him. An almost apologetic look flicked in his eyes.

"I- I didn't mean. I actually," he began, looking apologetic. He shook his head and thenwas off again, dropping a paper bag on the counter and beginning to jabber away about the dosage and just replicating their same routine from the night before. His eyes flicked over and John crunched Sherlock's teeth through another bite of toast.

Sherlock used John's throat to swallow and then drew his notebook over to review the proper dosages they would need tonight. A pale long-fingered hand pushed a plate of toast towards him. Sherlock reached out and cautiously took a slice to munch on. Well, John's transport would need it. It wasn't used to working on little more than caffeine like Sherlock's was. John's palate seemed perfectly fine, it lit up in response to a good marmalade. It was different being John Watson, mused Sherlock. Warmer. The small belly brushing against his clothes didn't feel bad. Not at all actually.

Sherlock shook John's head and went back to his calculations. Everything would be back to normal tomorrow.


	2. Plans and Pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get more familiar with their borrowed bodies and trouble rears its ugly head.

John woke the next morning to his own face glaring at him. John groaned in Sherlock's voice and flopped onto his back.

"Damn it. What did we do wrong?" he wondered aloud.

Sherlock rolled John's eyes and snapped, "Doubtlessly it's all that food in my body, messing with the drug's affect. It's supposed to be taken on an empty stomach. That was the only variable that was changed from last night."

"Yeah? Well, maybe you got the dosages wrong," retorted John, feeling grumpy. He didn't feel as if he had slept easily last night. His, or well, Sherlock's stomach had been rumbling at him. It seemed once it got a decent meal it was desperate to make up for the others it had missed. He was even feeling hungry now.

"I most definitely did not, John. I checked everything," said Sherlock flatly, launching himself out of bed and beginning to pace the length of the bed in agitation, "I had everything included. Except apparently your inability to go a few more hours without sustenance."

"Oi. It's not as if eating is some foreign concept. You need nutrients to function. Especially your brain," said John sitting up to watch Sherlock march his body back and forth.

"Three times in a twenty-four hour period? Hardly!"

"That's the usual, yeah."

"Tedious," pronounced Sherlock with a note of finality before throwing himself back onto the bed and sulking moodily at the ceiling. "My contact will be out of the country by now. I doubt I'll be finding a similar proprietor anytime soon. Mycroft is always so tetchy when I try to gather supplies."

"I wonder why," said John flatly. Sherlock glanced over, then ducked his face and fidgeted with the hem of John's pajama bottoms.

John softened and reached out to card Sherlock's long fingers through his own short hair. It was an odd thing to try, but at least he knew what his body liked.

"Look. We'll work it out, alright?" said John bracingly, "We can handle being each other for a few more days until we work out what to do. We know each other well enough don't we?"

"Well, yes. Though I don't think I should try my hand at any surgeries," said Sherlock with a small grin which John returned.

"Yeah I think you're right. You'd better call me in sick. Say it's some sort of flu or stomach virus. That should buy us a week," said John, stretching Sherlock's long limbs and getting out of bed. He grabbed his own mobile from the night stand and tossed it to Sherlock. "In the meantime I'll go fix us some breakfast. Your stomach feels like it's started trying to digest itself."

Sherlock looked up, an odd panicked look flashing through John's borrowed eyes.

"What?" asked John, perplexed.

"Nothing," said Sherlock quickly, looking down at the mobile and starting search his contacts for the surgery's number. John pulled on Sherlock's robe and strode off to the kitchen. Sherlock watched him go, his brows knitting into a frown.

Once Sherlock had called the surgery and explained his, or well, John's absence with minimal detail, he pulled on John's bathrobe and walked cautiously to the kitchen. There was a heavy sweet smell in the air. A heady one as if something was baking. A sizzling sound as if something was frying...

"Pancakes?" said Sherlock, entering the kitchen and looking dubiously at what John was cooking.

"Chocolate chip pancakes. Your sweet tooth has been screaming at me almost as much as your poor stomach," said John, sliding another golden pancake onto the plate.

Sherlock felt his own tongue creep out in response before he forcibly drew it back in.

"That's not necessary," he said firmly, eyes flicking over the transport, his transport that John was currently inhabiting for any traces of change.

"Probably not, but I thought I'd make us something good anyway," said John, pouring another measure of batter out into the pan.

Sherlock watched it bubble and cook. He clenched his jaw to keep from demanding just how many of those flat delicious monstrosities John was planning on eating. The stomach currently attached to him grumbled and twisted as he inhaled again. Vanilla. Sweet. Rich. Chocolate. Sherlock blinked and unconsciously wet his lips again. Well, they did smell good. And oh. Oh! Sherlock suddenly understood exactly what he needed to do.

The clear course of action was obviously to limit the number of pancakes available for John's consumption. He grabbed a plate and started piling on a thick stack of pancakes.

"Eager are we?" chuckled John, glancing over as Sherlock marched off with no less than five pancakes.

"Yes, well. Your transport is acting up as well. Far more than mine ever did," said Sherlock haughtily. He sat down and began cutting into the pancakes.

John snorted and finished up the last of the batter. "You seem to have a lot of faith in how much my stomach can fit inside it," said John, joining Sherlock at the table and eying the other man's portion. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and took a bite. They were quite good pancakes. Hot, with melted rich chocolate bits that coated the tongue, fluffy-soft in texture and sweet with just an added tickle of vanilla. Still, Sherlock found himself struggling to finish his entire stack. He set down his knife and fork for a moment and leaned back, glancing discretely at John as the man directed his transport to feed itself.

Was that two pancakes? Or three? And was that syrup? Sherlock stopped himself from asking just in time. He bit John's tongue as his mind raced ahead, planning and calculating.

"Finished?" asked John, looking up and then over at Sherlock's plate where one and a half pancakes still lay.

"Hm." was all Sherlock said, absorbed in his own inner thoughts.

John removed the plate from in front of Sherlock and resumed eating.

Sherlock didn't realize what had happened until John muffled a belch with Sherlock's own breath and stood to take their plates to the sink. His eyes followed a pale long-fingered hand as it trailed down to rest over his transport's middle which seemed quite a bit rounder and fuller than Sherlock ever allowed it to become. Sherlock narrowed John's eyes. This meant war.


	3. Some Buttons Give, Some Takeaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are still stuck, but learning something new and very interesting.

Sherlock and John fell into a bit of a routine over the next few weeks. John spent much of his time at home, working on emails or referrals since he was unable to turn up at work as Sherlock. The steady influx of paperwork seemed to appease Sarah, though in all honesty she was probably getting worried about his lack of attendance. She could only be so charitable. Especially since they had split up and he had ended up with Sherlock just as she had seemed inclined to believe would happen. He expected to be fired by the week's end unless he managed to get his own body back.

Sherlock, however, hardly seemed to be home at all. He still worked cases, though on the premise of having 'Sherlock at home' text him all the deductions required for the crime scenes. Other times he seemed to be trying to track down more of the African Dream Root in the hopes of restoring them to their rightful bodies. He was out doing that just now, actually. John finished his last email, sent it, and then lounged back against the sofa, yawning and stretching. He heard a faint pop and then a plink as a button broke off of Sherlock's shirt. John grunted in surprise and looked down. Sure enough, a defeated thread was all that remained where the button once had been keeping the shirt together over the pale chest that now peeked out in the gap. Well, really, with how unbelievably tight Sherlock's clothes were, he was surprised that didn't happen more often. And God, the trousers... He got to his feet, trying to locate the button that had fled. He was sure Sherlock would throw a fit if he found out. This purple shirt seemed to have been one of his favorites. And he had been glaring more and more venomously at him as the days went on. He suspected the detective was getting frustrated with their lack of a solution. John couldn't blame him.

John had just located the button beside one of the coffee table's legs when he heard the door open. He straightened hurriedly, button in hand and looked to Sherlock as he walked in. "Any luck?" he asked hopefully.

Sherlock shook John's head, looking rather haggard. He'd forgotten to shave this morning apparently, if he'd been home at all.

"No, another dead end. It seems no one around here is interested in more experimental sub-" Sherlock stopped speaking as he tracked John's eyes over the gap in the shirt no longer quite covering his transport's front.

"Er, yeah. Sorry. I just stretched and your button finally quit. I'll sew it back on. Don't worry," promised John, holding up the button to show it wasn't lost.

Sherlock moved John's eyes up briefly to his own face, then slowly down the rest of his body. Suddenly his face broke into a smile, so garish that it made John cringe to see it on his own features.

"Of course. It does occur. Don't trouble yourself over it, John," said Sherlock, that horrible smile still in place. "I'm just going to take a quick shower. I've been in all sorts of unpleasant environments today. Must look after your body after all since I'm borrowing it. Excuse me." He strode past John where he stood and marched into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him.

John swallowed, feeling rather confused at his lover's behavior. He quietly walked back to the bedroom and decided to get the shirt patched up sooner rather than later. Sherlock seemed to be in one of his moods after all.

He began undoing the shirt, noting that the buttons sprang apart with quite a bit of ease. Well, he supposed he had been nourishing Sherlock's transport a bit more than it was used to. Still. It was healthy. It wasn't any different than John's usual naggings at Sherlock to get him to eat except for now he was successful 100 percent of the time. He removed the shirt and then looked down, running his hands down over the plane of Sherlock's stomach. It didn't seem as flat as before perhaps, but nothing to worry about. Just a bit of softness collecting around the navel like everyone had. He slid his hands up to his chest. And the ribs could still be felt, well, a few of them. He looked over at the mirror over the dresser. Sherlock's body just looked healthy, lean. Like it was taken care of. Collarbones less pronounced, ribs sliding smoothly under a layer of fat and skin tissue. He looked good actually. If John wasn't currently in this body, he would want to kiss it. Explore every little curve and line. He slid his hands down to the trousers at his hips. They did feel a bit fuller too, the bones no longer cuttingly sharp. He slid his hands back and squeezed. Luscious emerging love handles. John smirked and drifted back further. Delectable arse, fuller and rounder against the tight trouser. Yeah. Not bad at all. He gave it a luxurious stroke.

John suddenly realized what he was doing and coughed, shaking his head before setting to work reattaching the button to Sherlock's shirt. There was a slight flush of heat lingering in his cheeks. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen Sherlock undressed or touched him before. But it was odd to do so without the other man actually being in the room at the time to give his permission.

Sherlock stayed up most of the night again. He glared when John started to cook dinner, but begrudgingly accepted the plate that was brought to him, even if he didn't seem to taste the simple pasta in sauce that he was stuffing into his mouth. Still, John assumed he was working if the man's rapid machine gun typing was anything to go by, so John turned in on his own. He lay on his back and couldn't help but rest his hands on Sherlock's middle, map out the tiny roundness left from dinner, dip a finger into the navel. It was oddly pleasant. The nerves there seemed quite sensitive to his careful touch and the skin was soft. He felt a tingle rush through him. John turned resolutely onto his side and tried to force himself to sleep.

He awoke later in the dark to the sound of the doorbell buzzing below. He grunted and turned over, blinking towards the dim crack of light entering through the door. He heard Sherlock mutter a curse in his own voice from the living room and then go downstairs. John frowned and looked at the clock. It was 2 in the bloody morning. He growled and turned on the bedside lamp, deciding he might as well take a piss since he was already awake. He grabbed Sherlock's robe and lumbered to the loo. He heard a crackle of plastic bags as Sherlock reentered their flat and the sounds of something being placed on a table. John washed his hands, then wandered out to see what Sherlock was up to.

John found Sherlock sitting on the couch and unpacking a quite astonishing amount of takeaway containers onto the coffee table. John blinked and ambled over.

"Bit hungry?" he asked, watching Sherlock open one of the containers with a monstrous serving of sweet and sour pork. Sherlock glanced up briefly, but shrugged noncommittally as he began shoveling the serving into his, or well, John's mouth. John shrugged and sank onto the sofa with Sherlock, figuring the man would likely be in a better mood once he had some food in him. Hang on. They'd had dinner together.

"Any particular reason you had a craving for three types of Chinese at 2 in the morning?" asked John again as he began picking through the other containers. He found a carton of egg rolls and made to take one.

"John. Those are mine," barked Sherlock through a mouthful of saucy vegetables, "I'll ask you kindly to return to bed."

John ignored him and took the egg roll anyway. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately," he said as Sherlock began eating all the more rapidly, "You're going to make yourself sick like that. My digestion's not as kind as yours to large quantities of Chinese."

Sherlock chewed furiously and swallowed before glaring daggers at John. "I said. Those are mine. Kindly stop stuffing my transport full of useless calories," he snarled, stealing the egg roll from before John's very lips and eating it with an astonishing amount of aggression.

"Oi, what do you call what you're doing then?" demanded John, noting that Sherlock had finished one carton and had just popped open a second.

"I thought I would make us even since you're determined to fatten me up," said Sherlock shortly before he filled John's mouth again, this time with some sort of chicken and broccoli thing.

John blinked and sputtered,"I'm not! Sherlock wha-"

"No?" sneered the detective in the doctor, looking up from his binge, "Then what is this?"

He reached out with one of John's hands and squeezed little lip of softness growing on his body's middle, just visible beneath the t-shirt John had chosen to wear to bed.

"Come off it mate," said John, rolling Sherlock's eyes, "That's what your stomach is supposed to feel like. I haven't made you fat. I doubt you could ever be I'm just looking after-"

"I'm inclined to disagree," retorted Sherlock shortly, glowering over his next bite of chicken in what might have been teriyaki sauce, "I have no qualms with fat, I just dislike inefficiency. Sluggishness that comes with indulgences." He took another bite.

John raised an eyebrow. "Well if that's how you feel I don't see how you put up with me," he said dryly.

Sherlock paused in his eating and looked over. "I fear I might have said that wrong," he said, blinking a bit as he reviewed his own words, "You're not inefficient. You know how to do things. You're sturdy and strong. It suits you, dear John. But never me. I'd never be able to-"

"Why not?" pressed John, the other eyebrow rising to meet the first.

Sherlock opened his mouth. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but chose to stuff in more Chinese food.

"Alright," said John, rolling his eyes, "You don't want to talk. That's fine. We can talk later when we're both awake. Just try not to give me a heart attack before the morning, yeah?" He smiled at his own joke but there was a bit of underlying warmth and concern behind it. Sherlock nodded and continued to eat as John went back to bed, snagging a single egg roll on the way.

Once John had gone, Sherlock set down his latest carton and huffed. God, it was so tight! This was undoubtedly the fullest he'd ever felt. John's stomach was most certainly reaching it's capacity as it shot small sharp bolts of pain to signal to him to stop. Sherlock gave a soft groan, a hiccup, then reached for more food. He ate until he could barely make himself swallow. There was no more room. The jeans he'd chosen were putting even more pressure on the middle he had filled. He reached down to undo them and gave a barely muffled groan as John's stomach was free to expand out through the opening. God! That felt better. Better than better, actually. It felt oddly... good. He experimentally slid his hand over the jumper he was wearing feeling the tight roundness of John's belly beneath it. He pressed into it and gasped at the sensation, then rucked the jumper up to touch. Hot, tight soft skin. Warm and full. And so very round. Sherlock began tracing a soothing circle over it, careful not to shift the tightly packed mass too much. Just light touches that sent tingles running through his skin. He had eaten so much, his stomach felt so heavy. He prodded it lightly. Heavy and full and fat. Deliciously so. Sherlock realized his breathing had become almost panting in its quickness. He felt warm all over, his full belly pangs beginning to blend into pleasure as he rubbed, stroked, and soothed.

He quickly stopped himself, shoving the hem of the jumper down over John's middle again and forced his breathing to calm. Well, that was most certainly an interesting result... If slightly worrying. Sherlock licked John's lips and lay back with a grunt. He fell into a food-induced doze and was soon fast asleep.


	4. In Need of Letting Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two return to their proper bodies along with some new kinks.

Over the next few weeks, quite a lot of food was brought into 221 B. Neither John nor Sherlock could be precisely sure who had started it (the other had, clearly), but it was certainly a curious situation that only seemed to grow over time. Rather like the middles of a certain ex army doctor and consulting detective. Sherlock brought home a pizza and refused to share, so John ordered in enough Indian to satisfy both of them but resolutely finished it all. John brought home a double burger and chips, Sherlock responded with a heaping portion of fried fish and chips to match. Sherlock brought home a sticky lemon pound cake and made a spirited attempt to eat it in one sitting (Though he failed as he'd had a rather good lunch. John was able to polish it off for him though). John made a habit of stopping by the bake shop down the street several times a week. Sherlock cooked Full Englishes just as often. And on and on until it was a miracle that either of them could do their trousers up any longer.

The oddest thing for John was seeing Sherlock eat with such an appetite. He could blame it on his own body of course, but the one he was inhabiting had desires for food that were just as if not stronger than what he was familiar with. The doctor could of course see the effects all of the indulgences were having on the both of them. But he didn't mind. It put him at ease to know that Sherlock's 'transport' would have a bit in reserve the next time the brilliant idiot forgot he needed more than air and caffeine to survive.

The oddest thing for Sherlock, was that he was actually enjoying himself. He shouldn't like it. Shouldn't love stuffing food down his borrowed throat and watching John do the same to his body. Why was it that the soft roundness collecting under and pushing out against his tailored shirts and suits was catching his eye? More importantly, why wasn't he filled with disgust? Mycroft dieted, hated the fat that crept so easily onto his body... His parents had been openly disparaging about anyone eating to excess, making pigs of themselves and growing fat from their indulgences. They had been so quick to push Mycroft to diet and exercise and had praised Sherlock when he had elected to do the same on his own. The thought of what they all would say if they saw his body growing softer, rounder, yielding... Sherlock felt something very oddly like arousal flare through him at that. It was oddly relaxing to know he didn't have control of what John was putting in his body. In all reason he should panic at the thought. But somehow... he just felt good. More relaxed around food than he could recall ever having been.

Therefore, he had very few qualms about stopping by a Chinese take away on the way home and ordering as many dumplings as he could haul back to Baker Street. This time however, he was inclined to share.

"Oh, hello, love," said John in Sherlock's rumbling baritone as Sherlock walked John's body in. John had been lounging on the sofa, laptop upon his belly which was actually beginning to poke up now. He noted that John had elected to remain in Sherlock's pajamas today. Perhaps to preserve the life of an innocent trouser button? Sherlock chewed John's lip before smiling and dropping the bags he'd been carrying onto the coffee table.

"Hello," replied Sherlock in John's voice, leaning in to kiss him delicately. He still felt a bit odd about kissing himself, but it was John who was responding so really it wasn't that different as long as he didn't think about it too long. "I brought us some dinner."

"Some?" chuckled John, taking in the bags of cartons upon cartons on the table.

"Yes," said Sherlock in feigned innocence, even as he grinned in return, "I figured we might deserve a bit of a celebration. One month since our rather odd incident."

"Aw, you remembered," said John with a snort. He sat up and patted the sofa beside him. "Go on then. Let's see what you've got."

Sherlock smirked and sat next to his body on the sofa, then began unpacking, noting with interest every time nostrils flared or appreciative hums sounded from his lover.

"You approve?" he asked, his voice oddly husky. He cleared it then added, "I suppose I can spare... oh, a carton. The majority is for me of course. Dumplings of every sort: steamed, fried, filled with pork, filled with chicken. Some lovely soft sweet ones with duck." He swept John's hand over the spread before them. "Oh, and some Nian Gao. Happy Chinese New Year."

"Mm, happy new year," replied John, chuckling and then pushing himself to his feet. "I'll fetch us some beers then. Make it a proper celebration. And don't you dare start without me." He pointed a long pale finger at Sherlock, then walked off to the kitchen. Sherlock watched his body leave, noting the way his pajamas seemed to cling to a distinctly rounder arse. It didn't look bad actually... He wondered if John thought the same.

The smell of the food really was tempting. Sherlock felt John's stomach growl. He found his set of chopsticks and lifted one of the steamed sort into his mouth. Mmm... that was good. Hot, chewy in the right ways, perfectly seasoned. It was immensely satisfying. Sherlock hummed and closed his eyes, rubbing at his current belly as he swallowed, ready to eat until it was pushing up the jumper and straining to get free.

"Oi, I thought I told you to wait for me!"

Ah, John had returned. Sherlock raised and eyebrow and smirked at his lover as he set down a few bottles where he could find room amonst the cartons.

"I was hungry. You were slow. Couldn't be helped," said Sherlock, taking one of the beers and drinking from it.

John snorted. "Well, in that case, you owe me at least one dumpling. That was my container," said John, taking it from under Sherlock's chopsticks and into his lap. He opened his own set and tucked in.

"Wasn't," said Sherlock haughtily, selecting a dumpling from a different container and transferring it to his mouth neatly.

"Was too," said John, right back. He winked at his lover as he took a long swallow of beer. "Anyway, doesn't really matter. I can eat loads more than you."

Sherlock laughed. "You mean my body can hold more than yours?" he corrected, "I would have to agree. Capacity might be larger. I however have the greater will." He swallowed a dumpling nearly whole as if to demonstrate.

"Mind over matter, eh?" said John, copying Sherlock's demonstration with one of his own.

"Indeed," retorted Sherlock, selecting another and sending it to join those already residing in his stomach.

"Hm, well we'll just have to see then won't we?" said John, smirking around his next bite.

"I think we shall."

The first cartons went down easily. The second cartons with a bit less show. New beers were opened, waistbands tugged. A third carton for each. These doughy dumplings were more filling than Sherlock had imagined they would be. The two competitors leaned back against the sofa. Bellies rounded and swelled and gurgled to protest the treatment. A fourth carton. Sherlock felt sure he would burst from pleasure as he struggled to keep up with John. Glorious John. Perhaps he had misjudged how much each of their transports could take. The detective's body seemed insatiable if John's pace was any indication.

Rest.

Foam cartons drifted to the floor. Neither of them were in any fit state to reach down for them.

"God... " gasped John, Sherlock's voice gone breathy.

Sherlock groaned, bringing his hands down to feel the belly straining against John's jeans. He'd even chosen a rather looser pair today. But now they felt anything but loose. He grunted and unbuttoned them, feeling the tension leak from him as his belly was free to expand.

"I feel absolutely molten," he breathed, shivering as he trailed fingers over the tight ball his stomach had become.

"I feel stuffed full of dumplings," said John conversationally. They both tried to laugh but ended up wincing as their swollen abdomens cramped.

"Oh, God... " repeated John, running Sherlock's hands down to the belly that was definitely rounded out, ready to jut over the hem of Sherlock's pajama bottoms. Sherlock hummed in John's voice and looked over lazily. He wondered if his own body's belly felt as good as John's. Sherlock reached over to touch and investigate. John muffled a small belch and sighed.

"Ready to concede to my victory?" asked Sherlock smugly, "I had one more dumpling than you I think."

John groaned and looked over. "Not fair. We had an odd amount. I could beat you if there was more."

"Oh I doubt it. My transport feels as though it has attained it's maximum capacity," said Sherlock, grinning and rubbing.

"Hmmph... well, we do have more actually," said John, wriggling to try to sit up better. "There's still dessert."

Sherlock swallowed, feeling his pulse quicken as John grunted and tugged the final container to him.

"If I finish this, I win. Agreed?"

Sherlock found himself too transfixed to do anything but nod. John drew in a breath that made Sherlock's belly round and swell even further, then tucked in.

Sherlock watched John feed him fatter, bite by bite until the container was scraped clean of every crumb and John had to collapse back against the sofa, hiccupping.

"Hah...told you I'd-I'd win," he breathed, closing his eyes and groaning as he clutched Sherlock's overstuffed belly.

Sherlock blinked dazedly at him. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes you did." He grunted as he shifted John's bloated stomach closer and reached out to prod the pale stretched skin that was peeking out from under his t-shirt.

"Oof! Sherlock, be careful!"

"S-sorry. I'm just. Oh God you made me so fat, John!"

"Jesus, Sherlock, I'm sorry," said John, trying and failing to sit up and look at his lover properly, "I shouldn't have. I know what y-"

"No!" said Sherlock quickly, cutting his lover off. He felt heat rise in his cheeks. "Call me a... a freak but. For some reason, I... I really like it."

"Er, okay," said John cautiously, "What exactly do you mean?"

"I mean I like it, John!" Sherlock suddenly snarled, as if his inflection made everything clear as crystal. He was never drinking again. Made his lips too loose.

"Right."

"No! I like-I like seeing my stomach like that! Round and full and f-fat!I can't explain it, I just like it," said Sherlock, hiding his face and sounding desperate.

"Hey," said John kindly, reaching over and stroking Sherlock's (his own) thigh. "It's okay. You're not a freak. Hell, everyone likes something different."

Sherlock remained silent. John tried to shift closer again.

"It's honestly fine, Sherlock. Something like that isn't going to scare me off. I love you."

Sherlock looked up, still tense but at least now there was eye contact... even if it looked helpless.

"It's not?" he asked cautiously, smiling with relief as John shook his head. He grunted as he leaned over his bloated stomach to kiss him. "I love you too."

"All's well then," said John, grinning. Sherlock nodded. John kissed him back and then added thoughtfully, "You know, if you do like a bit more meat on your bones, why the hell do you make me bend over backwards just to get you to eat?"

Sherlock hesitated then answered, "Mycroft..."

"What about him?"

So Sherlock told him.

In the end, they somehow managed to waddle to the bedroom and collapse back onto the creaking mattress. They both grunted and groaned as their full stomachs protested the move, but then were able to lay back in more relative comfort and chat quite happily. And appraise each others handiwork.

"I think yours is bigger than mine."

"Mm, maybe. But yours is a bit rounder..."

"The way yours just bloats up after your ribcage though, blimey."

"Your skin still feels so tight under my fingers. So full. It's beautiful."

"Hmm... so are you."

Somewhere in the night, their heavy food-filled bellies and soft worshipful touches hauled them off to sleep.

The next morning, Sherlock awoke to someone shaking him excitedly.

"Wasamatter?" came a deep baritone. His eyes opened and widened.

John. Beautiful John was smiling down at him.

"Morning, Gorgeous," said John, actual John in John's actual body. Sherlock accepted the kiss bestowed upon him, smiling.

"Hello," he rumbled, caressing John's face as if he hadn't seen it in weeks. Which he hadn't really. He'd worn it as a mask. This. This was what John's face should look like, lit from within by Johnness.

"Back to ourselves, then," said John, "That Chinese must have been magic. Or maybe we just happened to stumble back. Either way, I honestly don't care." He kissed Sherlock again. "I'm glad just to be waking up to you again instead of just boring old me. Breakfast?"

Sherlock chuckled and then wet his lips before chewing them. He slid a hand down to his much squishier middle. He was oddly excited at the prospect of feeding it himself after all those weeks of watching John do so.

"Yes, that would be perfect," he said, pulling John in for a kiss again and then grinning, "I think a full stomach ought to help me puzzle out how we managed to switch back to our proper bodies overnight."

"Hmm... maybe. Or maybe you're just a little hungry," teased John, prodding at Sherlock's stomach.

"Possible," allowed Sherlock, smiling and stretching as he felt the new weight move on his middle. "Care to make me a full English? Then I should probably arrange to meet with my tailor." He patted his belly thoughtfully, then jiggled it.

"Might have to wait a bit," said John, his voice oddly gruff. Sherlock looked up to find blown dark pupils. He smirked.

"Better make it worth it then," he challenged.

"Oh I will," growled John and fell upon Sherlock to enjoy every delicious ounce that had crept onto both of them during their time as each other.


End file.
